


A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing

by coquet



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pedophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquet/pseuds/coquet
Summary: John has a strange relationship with one of his choirboys.





	1. Earth Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t have a set age yet but Paul’s 15/16 and John’s 27/28 so if that’s uncomfortable don’t read it pls

He sits on the edge of the bed while Paul gets undressed in front of him, staring intently at him. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, probably won’t be the last time either. He doesn’t talk, but Paul does, sometimes, filling the silence with song suggestions for the next service or critiques about how some of his mates sang. They don’t touch each other. They never do, even when their both naked and achingly hard. That’d be taking it too far, entering dangerous excommunication territory if someone managed to find out. 

He occasionally catches himself thinking about what he could have if he hadn’t made a living being a conductor for the church. Touching Paul’s face wouldn’t be a problem, feeling his warmth through his finger tips. He’d be able to kiss Paul and not have to worry about the end of his reputation along with a lifetime of shame. They could have all the sex and attention they craved. He could be truly happy for once, have all he’s ever wanted. But that’s not how life worked. Paul _wasn’t_ his to have. They weren’t meant to be together like the newlyweds he sees sitting in the pews with a kid on the way. 

It was tempting to get away from everything at times like this. Paul was already here, all they had to do was take some stuff and leave. They could leave rainy and depressing Liverpool and go somewhere sunny and warm. Settle down and wait around for him to die. Marriage wasn’t even feasible, churches like this one didn’t accept homosexuals and the law didn’t acknowledge their right to marry. 

“This is getting boring for you, isn’t it?” Paul’s sharp voice filters through. He’s already undressed, arms crossed like he’s disappointed, which he most likely is. 

John looked up at Paul. “Have you ever thought about kissing me?” He’s constantly plagued with a full-out make out in his head. The idea festers and becomes more wanton when he thinks about it long enough. It’s a good way to pass the time, expressing all the built up affection he has for Paul in the safety of his mind. 

“K-kissing you? That’s— we _can’t_ do that,” Paul was startled, backing away from him like he was going to jump up and take matters into his own hands. 

“_I know_, I know,” he can see Paul’s muscles relaxing, “it’s just too much sometimes, the longing I get for you. It’s hard to enjoy what I can’t have,” it’s a shitty explanation for the way he’s acting, but words always fail when explaining how he felt. He doesn’t keep in touch with his emotions because he’s better off without knowing the constant gloominess he feels is something akin to depression. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Paul asked. He’s never close, always at a distance and ready to just dart out of his life. Why does he think leaving would make anything better? 

“No, stay. ‘S not your fault,” John patted the area next to him, beckoning the boy closer. At least they can be near each other, give the illusion that this was all they needed. 

Paul hesitantly approached John, hands over his groin in shame. He should be ashamed too, allowing Paul to undress under the same roof they worship and pray and detest sinners. Paul should be doing whatever choirboys did when they weren’t signing. They should both be going after girls, because that’s what religious people do, go for the opposite sex. _Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve._ He’d heard that once, some snide comment thrown out after two men holding hands walked past. 

He felt the bed dip next to him and folded his hands together so he couldn’t reach out and touch Paul. Lately, Paul’s become more and more tempting to touch. He’s growing into a man, dark hair covering his limbs and his voice transitioning from a higher pitch to a lower one. His voice is smooth like honey, which must be lovely to hear during sex. Or in the morning. Or when he’s allowed to say whatever comes to mind freely (technically he is, but the walls are quite thin in the back of the church). 

“I dream about kissing you, sometimes. We’re in front of everyone, at the altar. Getting married,” Paul looks down at his hands, chewing his lip. Upon closer examination, John can see a newly added glossiness to his eyes. 

“Do we end up staying together?” 

Paul shakes his head and bitterly laughs. “You always end up _shot down_ right after you say I do,” he whispered. The eye contact they make causes his stomach to drop, premonition in his eyes and words. 

While getting killed doesn’t awfully sound appealing, being married to Paul sure did. He would trade his life for a bit of happiness any day. At least then he’d die happy and not miserably alone. The latter is what’s most likely to happen, unless he decides to shack up some woman and try with all his might to fall in love with her and out of love with Paul. 

But falling out of love meant ripping his heart out and leaving the open wound for a random woman’s taking. He can’t torture himself like that. He doesn’t want to find someone else when Paul is still so vivid and ever present in his mind. They get married in Paul’s dreams. They kiss in front of all the _judging_, _prying_ eyes he’s tried so hard to shield Paul from. Everything is normal and perfect and so out of reach yet too close for comfort. 

“You’ll get your happy ending, Paul. With a lovely woman who’ll give you a good catholic home,” John wants to sound happy for him. Paul deserves the comfort of a normal future during this confusing, unholy, beginning of the end epoch marked with nudity. He’s got a father to impress and a brother to look after. 

“And what about you?” 

He shrugged. There was no future to look forward too, just an endless loop of leading the choir for a church that didn’t know what he truly was. Paul’s going to be 18 in the blink of an eye, and out of the choir with another boy filling his place. Maybe one day he’ll attend this church again with his wife, looking as handsome as ever and standing proud. Not all nervous and shameful like he is now, treading on thin ice in order to keep everything under the radar. 

“You should leave with me. No point in wasting the rest of your life away. You deserve a happy ending too, y’know,” Paul suggested, nudging his shoulder. He has a faint smile on his face, comforting him. 

John smiles back. His life was shattered ever since he caught Paul wanking and instead of telling him to stop like he should’ve, because that’s some sin or something, he watched like some bloody pervert. He couldn’t tell Paul that though. Scaring him away would be the last thing he wants. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he humored Paul. It wasn’t going to happen, but they could pretend for a bit before the end came. Make little plans together and pass the time pleasantly instead of being silent. 

“We could get a place in Paris, or something,” Paul adds, visibly giddy at the idea. His hopes are high for them, excited for what was to come. John can’t stomach to look at the light in Paul’s eyes and stares at the pile of clothes Paul left instead. 

“Don’t think we’d have the money for that. I barely make anythin’ as it is,” John scoffed. He had this small room and a bed at least, which isn’t that bad, but the money he has saved up is slim to none. It would take years to save up enough to even think about leaving the country. 

“Make our own Paris, then. _Heaven on earth_ and all that,” Paul said stubbornly. 

“What would we do all day? Lay about?” John chuckled. He remembers being strong headed like Paul when he was younger. There wasn’t such a thing as being wrong. Going with Paul sounded like a dream come true, paradise at his fingertips. Earth Angel plays in the back of his mind. 

“Whatever normal couples do.”

The music stops. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked back at Paul. Normal couples did a lot of things that Paul probably _didn’t_ know much about. There was a lot of unholy things he’d found out while being young and homeless and not involved with religion. The church had been a Godsend, in such a desperate need for a conductor that they offered him a place to stay as well. Would his aunt still be proud of him if he just left with Paul to do what couples did? 

“We haven’t even touched each other yet. There’s no way we’d be able to do normal couple stuff,” he knew they couldn’t jump from doing nothing to fully going at it. The awkwardness and confusion would be too unbearable for them to handle. 

Paul sighed and bit his lip. John knew he agreed with what he said. They couldn’t just start grabbing at each other now, here. They sit with a few inches in between them and pray no one walks in to catch Paul naked. Pretend, pretend, _pretend_ to their hearts content and wait for the next time to come around. Dream about what would happen if fate was in their hands. 


	2. Mind Full Of Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a lot of time to think before he can’t anymore.

He hadn’t gotten any decent sleep since seeing Paul. Two days have gone by and all he does is lie still, thinking about how fucked he is. He’d thought his paraphilia was just a phase, he’d been told he could grow out of it, start going for older men. That didn’t seem to be the case for him. In his early twenties, going for teenagers hadn’t made him think twice, most people didn’t seem to care about what went on with homosexuals as long as they did it away from their line of sight. Being damn near thirty and still going for the same age group made him realize his sexual deviancy wasn’t going away anytime soon. 

For the past three years, he’d been doing good trying to distance himself as much as possible from getting too connected. No physical contact, constantly having a bit of space between them, not going out of their way to see each other. As much as he thinks about Paul in his head, in reality they don’t really have any contact outside of church. Which was good, because they don’t need to become physically prominent in each other’s lives. 

Paul made future plans for them, like they were some couple moving in together. It was _sick_ and _twisted_, facilitating Paul’s warped idea about being together. He knows better than that. Paul’s straight, there wasn’t any option for him to not be. He can’t let Paul think it’s okay to be like him for the rest of his life. Paul’s sexual deviancy is a phase, he wouldn’t accept the alternative. The hormonal changes just twisted his perception, and soon everything will adjust. Paul will start chasing skirt, he’s sure of it. He can touch women and proudly tell them he loves them. 

The clock on his desk tells him it’s already four in the morning. Today is going to be hell for him. Running on no sleep for days and having to pretend he isn’t losing his mind with the whole congregation watching him lead the choir. He’d have to pretend for Paul, because God knows what he’d do if he found out something was wrong with him. Priests didn’t have time to worry about slowly spiraling into oblivion conductors. They would replace him in an instant. 

He’d be back on the streets and worse off than he was before entering the church. Becoming independent again meant not having to worry about getting caught. Any queer and alone kid was his for the taking. Safety’s better than freedom. He’s not young anymore, can’t go on the prowl for boys well out of the acceptable age gap. Working for the church gives him an excuse to limit his wants because he doesn’t want to be back in the real world without restraint. Not after all he’s heard about what people think about men like him. Nasty, deep cutting sentences strung together not at him directly but for him still. 

It’s all engraved into his mind, a vinyl full of _hate_ that reminds him what’s wrong with him, he plays back just to keep himself in check. Conversion therapy was a common suggestion for backward people like him, he heard it wasn’t effective though. Some people who went through it still met up at gay clubs and left with other men. He wasn’t going to do conversion therapy if it didn’t work, there was no point in wasting his time. There wasn’t any getting rid of his infatuation with boys like Paul through Bible quotes and forced sex. 

The sun starts to rise. He glances at the clock again, groaning when he noticed it was already six. He has to get up and ready soon, eat real quick before getting everything ready. Eight o’clock service was something he already despised, and no sleep wasn’t going to help. He just had to survive today and then get some sleeping pills or something. 

Without much thought, he sits up and switches on the lamp. His head feels light and there’s black dots in his peripheral, but he ignores it in favor of getting dressed. Keep working until service is over and then he can crash with the help of downers. A couple hours tops and he’s good to go. This vertigo is temporary, his mind’s going to come to soon and this dizziness will pass. He’s going to be fine, he has to be. 

Everything _wasn’t_ fine. His head hasn’t gotten any better, even with food in his stomach. The dots keep coming closer to the center of his vision, slowly creeping up in him like a predator with its prey. His legs feel like they’re going to give out at any moment, and Jim comes up to him speaking words he couldn’t understand. It’s a strange out of body experience this early in the morning, and he briefly wonders if he was going to die. A hand on his forearm forces him to walk, guiding him away from everyone, taking him outside. Jim’s there, practically holding him upright because he doesn’t have the energy to do it anymore. 

“John? John? What’s wrong with you?” Paul’s there for some reason, materialized in front of him out of nowhere. Maybe he’s not and it’s the sleep deprivation _taunting_ him. He doesn’t dare try and see if Paul’s real. 

“He just stood there...” 

“You think he took something?” 

His vision blurs completely, making him squeeze his eyes shut to avoid the headache of not having any focus. Jim’s sturdy enough to lean on so he doesn’t go tumbling forward. A concussion would be the last thing he needs anyway. Had he known that getting no sleep makes you feel this bad, he would’ve spent his time taking pills instead of thinking. He can take a quick kip here, and wake up right as rain. Jim wouldn’t mind, he’s caring just like Paul. Should be anyway. 

“Is he dying?”

“I think he’s sick.” 

“He’s fine. Stand up lad, c’mon.” 

He can feel Jim push him away, trying to get him on his own two feet. He didn’t have the strength to hold himself up, so gravity takes its toll. His body hits the gravel, there isn’t any pain, just an overwhelming urge to give in. The voices above him blend together as he relaxes on the ground, the most peaceful he’s felt in awhile. Rocks dig into his skin, they don’t hurt either, which was oddly funny. This should feel uncomfortable, but it feels good, better than his bed, even.

Sleep finally comes, blocking out everything and allowing him some peace. 


	3. Please Do Not Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are finally happening!!!

Father Richard is there when he wakes up, talking to Jim like John wasn’t around. They spoke too softly for him to hear, yet he knows it’s about him. He’s propped up on a nice comfy bed under soft clean smelling blankets and there’s a cold rag on his forehead, but the side of his face that came in contact with gravel aches. This room doesn’t look like it belonged to the church, being double the size of his own room and feeling more homey than anywhere he’s lived. 

“You gave us a good scare, John,” Richard says, concern imprinted on his face along with Jim’s. They look at John like he’s going to get worse at any moment. A concern John would feel thankful for if it wasn’t for the humiliating reason why he didn’t get any sleep. 

“Tried my hardest,” he quipped, looking out a window. It was still sunny outside, so he must’ve been asleep for a few hours. Hopefully the two of them haven’t been there the whole time all worried over him. 

“This is _serious_, son,” Jim admonished him. 

“I’m fine now. I was just tired,” he explained. Technically, it wasn’t a lie, because he did pass out from his lack of sleep. Now he’s fine enough to function, and that’s what matters. 

The room’s door opens up and he nearly jumps out of his skin when Paul comes in holding a tray. He couldn’t believe he was inJim’s house right now. Paul lived here and slept here and existed here. 

“Good lad, Paul. ‘Bout time you did somethin’ useful,” Jim said patronizingly, patting Paul’s shoulder as he passed by. 

Paul blushed. “Sorry. George stopped by,” he set the tray down on John’s lap before frowning. “Does your face hurt?” 

“A bit yeah,” he admits, not even acknowledging the food and drink Paul set down for him. He’s too focused on how close Paul is to his face, examining whatever his fall managed to produced. Jim and Richard are talking to each other again. 

Paul reaches out and carefully touches the side of John’s face with his index finger. Paul’s touch is so faint he thinks it’s his mind playing tricks on him again, but the darkened look in Paul’s eyes gives it all away. They _aren’t_ supposed to touch. Especially when it results in craving more, and they certainly could have more if the others weren’t there. Paul could come back when Jim and Richard are gone and... God, he shivers. This is the freedom he isn’t supposed to have. 

One rule was already broken, and he’s sure the other ones will start tumbling down like dominos. Not touching each other was one of the biggest concerns he had. He could do a lot to Paul with his hands and vice versa, and allowing that would completely ruin them. 

“Paul! Stop bothering the man!” Jim demanded, snapping him out of the trance Paul always seemed to put him in. 

He sets to work on the scrambled eggs and orange juice Paul made for him, watching Paul mutter some excuse to his dad before leaving. He feels relived Jim was there to stop Paul from taking it any further. Kissing would’ve resulted in him getting beaten to death by Jim, most likely. Paul continuously touching him would’ve made Richard take notice eventually. It was always a lose-lose for them, it seemed. 

“Are you going to be okay to come back tomorrow?” Richard asked after Paul shut the door. 

He nods, gulping down some orange juice. Paul’s the perfect caregiver, unlike Jim or Richard, who hadn’t bothered to make him anything or offer it. They opted to stand there and depend on Paul, who’s going through enough at the moment. Not like they know about that anyway, but it he still felt bad for Paul. 

“Alright, I’ll be here to pick you up first thing in the morning,” Richard informs him, careful smile on his face. Obviously he’s still worried about John but doesn’t want to continue bothering him. 

Jim offers to see him out, not waiting for an answer before opening the door. John was relived to finally be alone since this morning. He can eat in peace without feeling Jim watching his every movement. He’s fine and doesn’t need to be constantly watched by anyone. Even if he wasn’t, there wasn’t much they could do just standing around waiting for something to happen. 

He finished up the eggs quickly, not realizing how hungry he’d been before Paul showed up with them. He puts the empty plate back on the tray and moved it to a night stand next to the bed. He could live out the rest of his life here, have nice meals made for him and a soft place to sleep. Paul would be in the same house as him, constantly present in his life. Heaven on earth, just like Paul said. 

They only had tonight to enjoy the little fantasy of being together before he was whisked away back to the church. They don’t have time to play house, or enjoy each other in the way he only dreams about. No fucking or spit swapping or sleeping together. Heaven on earth has always been a foolish idea anyways, hasn’t it? There’s a constant ominous feeling around them, about what their doing, coupled with the worry of running out of time. One to two hours of trying to understand everything between the two of them while being quiet. 

Paul might not even show up again at all. The thought makes his chest ache for a reason he choses to ignore. Its a childish thing to get upset about, crying over someone not showing up like a schoolboy. Crying over someone who was very much still a schoolboy because he’s an ill-fated man. Fucked up in the head by some unconscious force that toyed with him and wouldn’t leave him be, _sadistically_, ruthlessly making him suffer like clockwork. 

The door came open again, and speak of the _devil_, because Paul’s in the doorway like an angel sent from heaven to stifle the torment going on in his head. It’s quite effective, Paul certainly has his full attention now, quietly shutting the door as if he wasn’t supposed to be in here. He doubts there’s been a time that they haven’t had to sneak around to see each other. 

“We have to make as little noise as possible,” Paul says in a hushed tone, flushed skin visible thanks to the sun hitting through the window. 

”What are you suggesting we do?” John asked, matching the softness of Paul’s voice. 

Paul bent down, close to John’s face. The lack of words makes him furrow his brows, wonder what’s Paul thinking about just staring at him like that. He fails to notice that Paul was just hesitating slightly before leaning all the way and tentatively pressing his lips to John’s. 


	4. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul makes a grave mistake after prying on John’s weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in Paul’s POV <3

Paul likes John. He likes the way John smells, cheap soap and cigarettes, the way John looks at him like he’s the only one who matters among all of the people they’re surrounded by. He likes the way John looks completely nude, a modern Roman statue completely his for the taking, handsome and perfectly made.

Having John stay with them was his idea, causally mentioning it to his dad, who turned to Father Richard for a better suggestion, getting a shrug in return. His dad wasn’t very fond of John for some reason, making comments about how unprofessional he acted and questioned if he was even a Catholic. 

He couldn’t _care less_ if John was the devil himself, because he’s the only person who makes his heart speed up and his whole body pulse with want. Even the women he’s seen prancing around wearing the promiscuous clothing that makes his dad sneer hadn’t managed to get a rise out of him, Mike grinned and elbowed him, enjoying the sight of them. He couldn’t understand what the appeal was, girls came up to him with batted eyelashes and their hands in his hair, offering to go back to their place, and all he felt was repulsion. They _weren’t_ John, or even looked remotely like him. 

He wants John. His dreams constantly display all the things he wants to do to John: hold him, hug him, feel him all over, fuck him, suck him off, etc. He’s gotten informed over the last few days, learned how to tie a knot in a cherry stem and how to make semi-permanent marks on skin with his mouth. He’d learned it all for John, because John wanted to kiss him. And he wanted to kiss John the way John _deserves_ to be kissed, tongues and all.

His plan was to kiss John the next time they were holed up in his room, but with John in the same house as him he figured it was a good time as any. He knew that once his dad went to lead Father Richard to his car that he wasn’t going to check up on John again. John’s all alone in the room next to him and it’s all he can think about, slowly gravitating to the door that held all his eggs in one basket. 

John’s oblivious to everything, so focused on whatever goes on in his mind, he doesn’t notice how badly he wants to kiss him and show off his new skills. When he finally does it, bent over John, the man shoved him off like he _burned_. His lips tingle from the mere ten seconds he was able to press his lips against John’s and he wants to do it again, _would_ do it again if it wasn’t for the arms keeping him at a distance. 

“The fuck are you doin’?” John hissed, eyes lit with something wild, making his skin crawl with need. 

“Kissing you,” Paul deadpans, prying John’s hands off of him. He licks his lips, disappointed that he only tastes himself. He can change that, delve his tongue into John’s mouth. 

“We can’t do this, Paul. Y’know what’s wrong with this,” John’s breathless plea and labored breathing only makes him more irresistible. It wouldn’t take much to make John set morals aside and just _indulge_ in him. Turn him primal and set loose all of the things he meticulously plans in his head, free him from the constraint Catholicism imposes. 

“I thought this is what you wanted,” he knows as a matter of fact that it’s what John needs. Whatever happened today had been a long time coming, and John obviously needs some resolution. 

“It’s fine, luv. Don’t force yourself to do this,” John sighs, glancing down at his wet lips. He _reeks_ of want, the desperation in his voice and actions still slipping through the cracks. John was never good at controlling himself, was he? Paul loves it, wants to take John’s self-control and _demolish_ it until all there’s left is him pulling at the strings. 

“You aren’t forcing me to do anything,” Paul assured him, nice and smooth like, trying to pull the fire from John’s eyes out and onto him. 

He touches the right side of John’s face again, this time without any witnesses, gently stroking the nasty bruise resting on his cheekbone with his thumb. John warms up to the affection, reminding Paul of a kitten, unintentionally closing his eyes and bringing down his defenses in one fell swoop. John’s so touch starved he almost feels guilty for waiting this long to get on with it. 

“See, this is nice, isn’t it,” he tells John as soothingly as possible, nearly cooing at the man, not a doubt in his mind that John found this anything but pleasurable. He’s thought about it a lot, mulled over if touching John would be a sin, coming to the conclusion that technically it shouldn’t be, they weren’t fucking, but if it was, he’d be going to hell enjoying every minute of this. 

“You should be heading back ‘fore your dad comes looking for you,” John suggested, opening his eyes. The fierce drive in his eyes died down until it was enough to manage, to look at Paul and show him that he’s back in control. 

His stomach turns. “Shhh. My da’ isn’t checking where I am any time soon. Not like we’re gonna have _sex_ right now anyway,” he moves his hand from John’s cheek unto the center of his chest, over his sternum, lazily tracing circles. 

“Paul...” John groaned, pushing the rag off of his forehead, and balling it up with his hand. Gripping onto it like he was in pain. “‘S not okay. You shouldn’t be here,” John’s lazy attempt to keep him away is almost laughable, but he has more sense than that. 

“Then tell me to leave,” he demands, confident, hand lowered down to John’s stomach. The shirt has to go sooner or later, not bringing the skin beneath John’s shirt any justice. 

John squirms at his touch, shaking his head. He grins, feeling John’s pulse under his fingertips. Adding gasoline to the light in John’s eyes, fueling him as if he depends on that fire to survive, which he does, _desperately_. John doesn’t want to deny him anymore, only focuses on the two of them and not about what goes on outside of this room. He straddles John’s stomach, enjoying the grunt his action pulls out of John. 

His elbows settle on John’s shoulders, effectively keeping the man under him. John looks like a masterpiece, always has, but now he’s magnified and everything jumps at him. There’s a healthy amount of stubble doting his jaw, and his nose is slightly crooked, but what really takes the cake is how pretty John’s lips are. John’s lips are thin, thinner than his, but they’re a nice shade of pink that just puts everything together. 

“Where’s your _shame_?” John speaks up, dead serious. His audacity is new to John, as is his extreme desire for control, knowing how to tip the scales in his favor. 

He ducks his head down to John’s ear. “You haven’t met the person I am outside of church,” he says simply before his tongue traces the shell of John’s ear, making John shudder _deliciously_ under him. John’s so receptive to everything, reacting as if he has heightened senses. “I’ve got wicked thoughts about us too, you aren’t special,” he mumbled, right below John’s ear, into the sensitive skin there. 

“Oh, Christ. I’ve _tainted_ you,” John mourned. He pulls back from John’s neck, shocked to see tears pooling in John’s eyes. This isn’t how John was supposed to react. He’s supposed to be free, not breaking down with guilt. 

“John, what’s wrong?” He asked. The answer nags him in the back of his mind, it’s _his_ fault, he’s pushing John away with his frowardness. Everything’s too fast for John, who just fell hours ago for some unknown reason he hadn’t even bothered to ask about and barley got any sleep. He’s been so utterly _selfish_ and now John has to suffer even more because of it. 

“I-I’m sorry,” John whimpers, tears finally coming down his perfect cheeks, over the damage today left. His guts twist at how hurt John is right now, over something he did with no influence from the older man whatsoever. It isn’t long before he starts to sob, muttering things Paul doesn’t understand, face buried in Paul’s shoulder to keep from people hearing. 

He strokes John’s hair, the tears staining his shirt burning into his skin, a reminder of what he’s done to John. How could he think that doing this to John was okay? John’s not at his house because of a sleepover, he’s here because there’s something _wrong_ with him. John’s mentally unstable and he takes the opportunity to exploit it without thinking twice. 

“Hey, hey. You haven’t done anything wrong. There’s no need to be sorry,” he murmured, guilt consuming him whole. 

John wraps his arms around Paul’s back, bringing him closer. It’s slightly uncomfortable, the tight grip John has on him, but he doesn’t fight it. If John needs to hold onto him like a lifeline so be it, the man desperately deserves comfort after what he’s done to him. 


	5. Work Song

He wants to vomit. Empty all the organs in his body and die a quick death. Burn in Hell for all eternity, God’s sweet revenge for pouring his poisoned mind into the receptive skulls of beautifully pure boys. Every time Paul looks at him his stomach churns, liquid creeping, burning, up his esophagus, never giving him release. His mind begs him to shout at Paul, tell him to leave so he could have some peace, but he never utters a thing. There’s a whole sea of people here, all wanting to pray for his health like he’s the _pope_. 

He should’ve known that when Father Richard said there was something going on at the church the day after he arrived back that it would be for him. He’s forced to sit on a chair for the sake of his health, and doesn’t acknowledge the people mouthing prayers with their hands on him. He can hear Paul laugh and talk lively about some new movie. Paul should be the one silent and worrying about the sky crashing down upon them in fury for kissing. He’s got no energy just siting here, completely drained of life, slowly decaying. His muscles twitch due to how still he is, a dull throb encasing his limbs. Sharp jabs constantly reminding him that he can still feel. 

Paul comes up to him, though, bent down and next to his ear. All the pain temporarily subsides. “I _need_ to see you after this,” he quickly whispers into John’s ear, before bounding off to talk again like nothing happened. 

His pulse goes erratic, lewd thoughts presenting themselves proudly in the forefront of his mind. Even with the urge to throw up and the ache piercing his body, the episodes his mind managed to conjure went straight to his dick. Paul’s kiss kicked his hormones into high gear, making him wake up with an erection that wouldn’t go down until he did something about it. 

He feels lightheaded for the rest of the time he has to have people fawn over him. Paul’s a hard-hitting and mind numbing drug, _intoxicating_ as an opium poppy. It’s hard to enjoy these people trying to make him feel better if they aren’t as amazing as Paul. He’s truly fucked now, broken barriers that they can’t just forget about and ignore, something he doesn’t want to just brush over. It makes him feel sick, knowing that after he got over the repulsion the only thing left is a stronger want to do it again. 

There’s more saliva in his mouth, he can feel the urge to gag crawling up the back of his throat. He’s trapped here until these people get all of the pray out of them and feel accomplished with themselves. At least he can watch Paul prance around and talk with people he probably should remember. 

“You feel okay? You look miserable,” Father Richard asks, constantly checking up on him. It’s endearing but also aggravating because Richard isn’t who he wants to keep circling around him. 

“Not really, no. Think we might have to cut this rendezvous short,” he groans, little frown on his face to drive his point. 

“Alright, I’ll be sure to wrap this up,” Richard promised, a quick squeeze to his shoulder before going off into the crowd again. 

The priest did an efficient job of getting a majority of the people to leave, the rest of the crowd only staying to talk amongst each other. He catches Paul’s again attention, tilting his head to the back door leading to the rooms. Paul nods before continuing to talk with some old lady. They’re going to be alone again. He has a chance to straighten things out after his little episode. 

“I’m goin’ to lie down,” he mumbled to Richard once the man came back by his side, getting up from the chair. Relief washes over his body, finally being able to rid himself of the stiffness embedded in his muscles. He takes his time going to the room, trying to steady his nerves before Paul came. 

He sits patiently on the bed, chewing his lip as he tried to organize his thoughts. He needs to tell Paul that they can’t make the same mistake again, the touching and kissing was a one time thing. They’d sinned once, and that was okay as long as they didn’t do it over. He could painfully settle for the sake of Paul’s livelihood, push his feral thoughts aside and just look at the boy. The original way they do things is safer and doesn’t drive him as mad. 

The short speech he has prepared dies in his throat when Paul actually shows up. Paul doesn’t look a tad tormented by what he caused, miraculously looks even more _perfect_. Not a thing amiss about his appearance, no shaky hands or bent posture. It’s not fair that he gets to look like hell while Paul just continues with his beauty. 

“I need another kiss, John.”

“A what?” He asked, throat closing up. Paul couldn’t be serious with a request like that. He realized that Paul wasn’t under his control but under his influence, acting out on the wants he didn’t dare to try out. 

“The first time I took your weakness for granted. I forced it on you,” Paul explained like he was a child, nice and slow and articulate. “I don’t want you to have a breakdown again after I kiss you, so tell me what I have to do to make you not freak out,” he continued, gently brushing John’s hair away from his forehead. 

“Are you out of your mind!? We’re not kissing again. It was a _mistake_, I get it, we can recover from that,” he said, assuring himself more than Paul, who didn’t seem to be buying it. Mistakes are easier to stomach. Paul isn’t supposed to be planning chances to kiss him. He doesn’t deserve Paul that way. 

“You’re the only thing my mind is set on. I constantly feel your lips on mine, it doesn’t _go away _no matter how hard I pray. I need release,” Paul whines full of desperation. 

His stomach lurches. Paul’s as tormented as him. They’re both obsessed with each other even if they shouldn’t. He wonders why Paul’s punished with these thoughts too. Paul isn’t queer, he shouldn’t have to deal with being helplessly immersed into him. He knows first hand how horrible being infatuated with someone is. He takes another look at Paul’s longing eyes and caves in. 

“Just one kiss. After that we don’t—“

Paul shuts him up with his euphoric lips, eagerly pressing against John’s. Paul folds down into his lap to get better access to his mouth, hands buried in his hair. John nearly moans when Paul shoves his tongue into his mouth, ecstasy making his toes curl. His hands grab at Paul’s shirt, keeping him in place as he titled his head. 

He swirls his tongue around Paul’s, chest burning at the lack of air and heart beating so fast he can feel it against his temples. Paul tastes lovely, tongue sweet as peaches. He’s captivated by the little groans Paul makes, fueling the white hot lust drumming in his veins. 

They separate for much needed air, panting into the other’s mouth. Paul’s pupils are completely blown and his lips are very red, he’s so picturesque that it throws John in a loop. He’d managed to make Paul look like that, not some girl. He could truly make the boy _completely undone_, and Paul would enjoy every minute of it because he needs release too. 

“One more,” Paul mumbled, brushing his nose along the bridge of John’s. 

He tried to shake his head but wasn’t quick enough, Paul had already begun licking his lips and he didn’t have the strength or the will to push him away. He wanted to fully immerse himself in Paul, embed into his skin. He was stupid to deny this for so long, surely kissing wasn’t bad if God had allowed it to feel so intoxicating. The roof hasn’t caved in on them yet and no one was rushing in to catch them in the act.   
  


Paul moves his lips from John’s down to his neck, wet lips brushing against his jugular, making him shiver in pleasure. His body was covered in goosebumps as Paul pecked at his neck, pleasure coursing through his body. He felt teeth scrape against his skin, unable to hold back from moaning anymore.   
  


“Bite me, Paul,” he begged, exposing his whole neck for him.   
  


”You sure?” Paul asked, lips keeping their onslaught on his neck.   
  


”Yes, yes. _Please_,” he grunted, eyes screwed shut in pleasure. He wants a reminder of what they did, something he can be ashamed of and beat himself up over later.   
  


Paul obeys, teeth digging into his flesh hard enough to hurt but not to draw blood. He can feel his dick stir as Paul licked the wound, relieving the sting a bit.   
  


“Can you do something for me now?” Paul questioned innocently, forehead resting on his as they stared at each other.   
  


“Of course,” he agreed without thinking twice, head submerged in euphoria.   
  


“Can you get undressed for me?”


End file.
